


Staying Alive

by Simara



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brain Damage, Creepy Fluff, Even though it's bad for your mental health, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Angst, Mentions of Violence, Mild Gore, Sebastian cares too much and Jim too little, Sebastian is the best thing that ever happend to Jim, Tags Are Fun, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simara/pseuds/Simara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim shot himself and Sebastian has to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staying Alive

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this story might be a little triggering if you are in any way suicidal.

**Staying Alive**

_Jim._  
A noise. A noise surrounded by blinding darkness. Somewhere far away, the smell of burned flesh made him remember how hungry he was.  
_Jim, Jim, hold on._  
The voice throed within his skull, tears it apart- no, the voice is not to blame. The pain had been there long before the noise was made.  
Everything will be alright- Don’t you dare to die!  
Words. Those are words but he can’t comprehend them. The pain fades everything else out. He does not know where he is. Does not know who he is. Pain. His head feels heavy; he’s caught in mist.  
_Don’t give up, Jim._  
Silence, he wished for silence. He wanted to sleep and forget the pain. Maybe he’d be able to think properly afterwards. Maybe he would remember what had happened. Once he had slept, he would remember his name and the pain, that horrible, all-enclosing pain would be gone.  
_You made it through so much…_  
A picture- Bright colours exploded before his inner eye but he couldn’t recognise anything, couldn’t concentrate. It’s too harsh and too red and too long passed for him to understand. It felt as though his whole body was shaking through a seizure even though he did not move at all, lay petrified in a pool of his own blood.  
_I won’t leave you here._  
When the sense of nothingness returned, it was of overwhelming beauty compared to the fading overstimulation. He almost believed that he was able to breathe once again. All of a sudden, a realization forced itself upon him. It was the first clear thought since some dreadful event he had no memory about. The thought was oh so silent and flickered weakly through his tormented mind, but Jim managed to grasp it just so before it was gone again. It was a short, concise thought and Jim had to rest for a moment before he could fully comprehend its meaning:  
He didn’t want to die.  
_We’ll take you somewhere safe, Jim, you’ll make it._  
Then, suddenly, the pain was gone but Jim had no chance to relish the numbness for with pain also went that last bit of conciseness that had been left to him. He was floating without being, without thinking, without feeling, stopped to exist and did not even notice.

 _Jim._  
A voice.  
_I don’t know if you can hear me._  
Did he know that voice?  
_But it can’t possibly become worse anyhow._  
Too many words. Too many words too long for him to understand.  
_They say you were lucky._  
Why couldn’t the voice slow a down a little? He would like to understand what it’s saying.  
_The chances to live through such a shot…_  
Shot? Shot? He tried to grasp the word, it seemed to be important but he did not know why and he couldn’t remember what it meant.  
_If one can call it a life at all, that is._  
Life. He was alive. Why shouldn’t he be alive? Why… Emptiness. He can’t concentrate, can’t think. Life. Was he alive?  
_Even if you should wake again… It would probably be more of a mercy to end it right now._  
So many questions formed in his head and were gone before he could understand, let alone voice them.  
_Not even you can survive such a wound without consequences. Who knows…_  
Too much, too loud, too painful.  
_what parts of your brain were damaged. If you’ll ever walk, talk, or hell, understand me again. It’s not a life worth living, least of all for someone like you._  
Tired, so overwhelmingly tired but it’s too loud to fall asleep and his head feels as though it had been shattered to a thousand pieces.  
_It would be a mercy to kill you now, before you have to realise what happened._  
The voice was so familiar.  
_But no matter what happens, Jim, I promise…_  
Sleep, oh sweet, relieving sleep. He wants to stay asleep for ever and never stop dreaming.  
_that I could never leave you behind._

He knows the voice already, has heard it a hundred times without seeing, without understanding, without knowing why. It’s the one constant in his darkness, the only thing that isn’t pain or weariness. It’s speaking softly most of the time but sometimes it’s loud, angry and full of curses. Today, it’s hardly more than a whisper but even so, it seems to him as though it had never been clearer.  
_Good morning, Jim._  
Jim. Jim. Jim. That was his name. He had to remember it. Jim. He was Jim, once, and he would give everything to be it again, even though he did not know where the difference lies. Only remotely was it that he suspected what was wrong; that he was supposed to be Jim and not a mere nothing floating in the dark.  
_It’s a beautiful day outside._  
Warmth danced across his skin and for a second he could recall- Not who he was or why that voice did always return but what the sun is and how it feels when her beams touch you.  
_I would take you outside, but I’ve got an appointment. I’ll be back in the evening._  
Sun, sun, yes, he remembers. The sun moves across the sky and once it goes down the night begins. The evening comes before the night and after it the morning dawns- It has to be morning, right now, the sun is so warm- He is real, lives within the world that stirs in the outskirts of his memory and when he tries really hard, when he tries with all his heart, maybe, just maybe, it will all come back to him and… and… what had it been, he just comprehended?  
_You left so much work behind. I will never understand how you managed all of it alone. Have you even thought about what you would throw away for you egoistic revenge?_  
It didn’t matter, whatever it was. He should better listen to the voice, the voice that caressed his senses by its sheer existence even though it sounded so bitter.  
_You probably never cared about anything. Not about your empire, not about your legacy, not about m- Oh, fuck it Jim, it was always solely about you, wasn’t it? Nothing else matters as long as little Jim gets what he wants…_  
Alone. He felt alone all of a sudden and no one would ever come back to look after him. Jim wasn’t sure whether that should scare him- fear was such dreadfully strange concept- or if he should be relieved that he would finally be left behind in silence.  
_…his toys, his guns, his snipers- At least that I know: That I belong to you. But you don’t own me, Jim Moriarty. I am yours and you are mine, even though you’d never admit it. And you should be so damn happy that I care more about you than you are even capable of caring for anyone, yourself included._  
Someone touched him. He felt a slight pressure. A thought raced through him. The voice was connected to a body, was real and so was he. That had been what he remembered earlier, he had to get back, back into the light, before…  
_See you later, Jim_.  
His name was Jim and he was real. If he tried hard enough he would be able to think again. But first he had to sleep. Had to forget the pain and the tiredness and hope that he would still recall what had taken so much effort to understand ones he wakes again.

 _Your results have never been better, Jim._  
The voice belonged to Seb, whoever that was, and his name was Jim. Seb was trying to teach him but Jim was a poor student. He did not even know, for how long he had been trying to relearn how to live. Seb had told him once but Jim forgets so much and understands so little.  
_The doctors say that you’re unusually strong. They say that you might actually wake up soon. Even though chances are that you won’t be more than an empty shell._  
It had been a long number, Jim was sure of that, but could by no means tell whether it had been high or low. He must have been lying here for a long time but he had no memory of anything prior to his darkness. But he had to find out, had to think no matter how painful it was. Every single realisation was like a stab into his throbbing skull, every flickering memory strangled him.  
_Jim… you’ve always been so stubborn. Please. Please proof to me that you still are, that you are too stubborn to waste away like this. Imagine their dumb faces when they learn you came back from the dead. Think of all the ways you could make Holmes friends suffer. You can do it, Jim. Do it for me, or I’ll go crazy. Come back to me, before I kill them myself. You listen? There won’t be any one left to torment for you, if you don’t hurry up, you bastard._

He had an awful dream. A memory. Both. Or neither, where was the difference? He had been a little boy once again, sitting on the floor, crayon in hand. Someone was screaming and a woman was sobbing. Something shattered and the screams become louder. Jim was drawing. Drawing a cat he had seen earlier that day. It was different from all the other cats he knew, because it did not move. It was pressed flatly against the street and red with blood and entrails. He had burrowed his fingers deep into it- the cat had still been warm and felt funny in his hand. He had found it fascinating how different a cat looked once it was met by a car. The not so distant screams stopped when some kind of furniture broke under the weight of a womans’ body. Jim did not look up. He knew well enough how his mother looked after she met his fathers’ fist and the dead cat was way more interesting. He had not been allowed to play with it for long so it was even more important to draw all the details before time made them fade.  
_Jim! Jim, can you hear me? Hey, it’s me. I’m here. I’m here. Doc, didn’t you see it? He moved! I saw it, he…_  
His eyes flew open with a silent scream. He felt lost. The world was still black around him; only hazy shadows were flickering here and there, unable to illuminate his endless night. But something was different. He knew it. He could feel every fibre of his body and the dulling pain seemed to be precious for a reason that was beyond his reach. Thirst. His throat was dry. So thirsty. So tired. No, don’t fall asleep. Stay awake. Stay strong. Think. Even though it hurts. His name was Jim and he was still alive and Seb was there to make him whole again. Seb. He tried to speak the name but no sound left his mouth.  
_I’m here. I’ve got you. Jesus… -Do something, you idiot! I’m not paying you to gawk at me!_

„I brought some food.“ Sebs voice was sickeningly soothing and the food smelled well. Jim smiled. Seb helped him to sit up before tugging him in again. He was still freezing, though. Seb was hardly more than a shadow to him. He couldn’t see him, was almost blind, but the firm grip on his shoulder assured him of the other ones presence.  
„Seb?“ He needed all of his energy to form that syllable. It had taken an eternity before he had been able to regain control over his mouth and it was still a fight to speak. Every word sounded wrong and hurt in the back of his throat. His tongue felt too big and all sounds he made were still somewhat slurred, uncontrolled.  
„Yeah?” Jim found new strength and searched for the word he would need next. It was hidden behind barrels full of forgotten memories and unfeelable emotions. The word had a strange feeling to it, almost as if he had only learned it’s meaning that very day.  
„T-th-thanks.“

„Hold out your arm for me, Jim.“ Sebs voice was still patient even though he had already asked twice.  
„W-won’t.”  
„Jim.“ Urging.  
„C-can’t.“  
„Please, try. You can do this.“ Reasuring.  
„W-why?“ He was cold and in pain.  
„You know exactly why.“  
„For-got-ten.“ So much pain. But he was used to pain, appreciated its existence. It made him feel less empty.  
„Try to remember. Try for me. What is it we have to do every morning?“ Remembering was frustratingly hard. The sheer notion of this having happened before gave him a headache. All he wanted was to go back to sleep.  
„For-got-ten.“ He repeated and felt dreadful while he did it. Disappointed by himself. If Seb felt similar he knew to hide it well.  
„I have to inject you’re analgesics and check your reflexes.“ Jim grimaced. The strange words made a stinging sensation crawl out of his memory and made him remember that he liked the pain way more than that dull mist he came to associate with the procedure. Without protest- because protesting was so exhausting, included thinking and talking and listening- he pulled himself together and managed to raise his arm high enough to satisfy Seb. Strong hands helped him to carry the load of his own weight and touched his skin with something moist… there was a word for what he did there, it danced on the tip of Jims tongue but he did not manage to grab it because it was way to long. He had barely remembered the first two syllables when both beginning and end of the word escaped him again.  
He knew by now, that he had once known much more and the thought itself was horribly frustrating. Distantly could he recall schemes of what was once part of his live and did only understand a fraction of them. Jim bit his lip when Seb injected the drug and tried to concentrate on the pain for as long as he was still granted it. Soon, even this small proof of reality would disappear and only emptiness would remain. He would be left behind with Sebastian- Because yes, now he remembered, Seb was but a nickname that belonged to someone he had known before any of this had happened, but the world began to become foggy and his head was too blurred to remember the details.

Learning how to write was tricky. It had been so easy the first time; he had been such a quick learner. But now, even to hold a pencil was tiring. Sometimes he forgot the letters that Sebastian had taught him and had to learn them all over again. Jim clenched his jaw whenever that happened and tried to listen as closely as possible, to engrave the knowledge into his brain so that he would never again forget how those lines were meant to look.  
Reading was even harder. He knew so few words and had to learn so many more. On some days he recognised whole word fields and on others he could hardly recall his own name. It was a wild dance, two steps forwards, three steps back, a spin that made him dizzy and once again a jump towards success, followed by a painful crash. But Jim tried his best, strained to achieve, scribbled the letters down and read words which to remember hurt badly in a voice that was shaky and so not his own. At least, the pain had lessened and he did not need to take drugs any longer. Mostly, he even recalled what he had done the previous day.

When he’s dreaming, there are pictures and faces from the past. He can’t assign any names to them but he knows that they were important, once.  
There’s a woman with lips that are painted in a bright red- or are they simply bleeding?- and hard eyes.  
There is a boy with broad shoulders and expensive sneakers. The boy shoves him and kicks him, calls him ‘Freak’ and laughs. He hates that laugh.  
There’s a man with a scarf and knowing eyes, looking at him in shock. Jim does not know why and the man does not explain, retreats in horror and leaves Jim alone in the dark.  
There’s another man, big, shadowy and always raging. Sometimes, Jim is afraid to go to sleep because of him.  
Faces, words, names are buzzing through his head and it feels as if everything around him is spinning until the world is nothing more than a whirl of dripping colour.  
He can’t always distinguish dream from reality because sometimes the dreams feel so true and he himself seems so much more alive within them. Whenever that big, angry man grabs him in his sleep and cracks Jims head against the tabletop there is a pain that feels refreshingly real. And whenever he watches that man die- a shattered bottle beside him, a bottle that Jim himself had prepared for him- the sensation of triumph and relieve where all-embracing. In all his happy dreams, he watched someone die.  
His eyes are still really bad, however, but it became easier to tell different schemes apart by now. Sebastian does always say they would become even better, in time, even though he’ll never be able to see as well as in the past. The past… If only he could remember what had been so different in the past.

„Who am I?“  
„Seb. Seb-ba-stian.“  
„And what’s your name?“  
„Jim.“  
„You’re supposed to answer in full sentences, Jim. It’s no training if you don’t try.”  
„M-my na-ame is J-jim.“  
„Well done.” He was only slightly ashamed for savouring the praise. He felt pitiful anyway. Every day he became more aware of what he had once been and what was now forever lost.  
„Do you remember what day it is?”  
„Mon-mon…d-day.” He would practice until he reclaimed all that had been taken from him, may it take as long as it must. „To-day is Mon-day.” The accident, as Sebastian preferred to call it, even though both knew better, had happened nearly three years ago, and Jim was still little more than a chunk with limited consciousness. But he had learned, had struggled and was now able to read simple sentences and knew how to write with shaking fingers, as long as he wasn’t too tired. He had relearned how to speak even though he was always stumbling over his own tongue that still felt too big to be useful. His thoughts managed more often than not to get through the thick mist that had laid itself over his shattered brain.  
„How many cups are on the table? “  
„T-two cups.” But the only truly important realization he had made so far was that everything was in vain. In his better moments, he knew well enough how much he had lost, that he had once been a genius and had now become a cripple and that he could train as hard as he liked without ever coming near to what he had deceived himself of. But that didn’t stop him from trying.  
„T-the red one’s m-mine.“ Sebastian smiled. Jim despised and needed that smile in ways that he couldn’t understand. It reminded him both of how low he had sunken and how high he had dragged himself again.  
„Right. And the blue one belongs to me. Do you want some more of that juice?”  
„Yes. S-sure. Or-… Or-ran-“ Jim did not manage to make the sound. Sebastian reached for the orange juice at once but Jim grasped his sleeve with a weak hand and a warning look. He closed his eyes. He had to concentrate.  
„Or-ran-ge. Or-ran-ge j-u-uice. Or-range jui-ce. I w-want or-range juice.” He would never again become what he had once been and he had only two options of how to deal with it: He could either crawl into some corner like a sulking child and wait for death or he could pull himself together and prove to himself and the world how extraordinary he was for one last time- And be it only through making himself ordinary.

**Author's Note:**

> This is twisted and sick and I enjoyed writing every single word. I have no apologies to make. The next story planned will be more on the amusing side, promise. Also, no cats were harmed in the making of this oneshot. ;)  
> I just realized that I feel the need to write a counterpart for this ff in which Sebastians side of the story is shown…  
> English is not my native language and this one was really trying to write because I had to skip between so many tenses. So please bear with my mistakes, dear English-Speakers, and feel welcome to inform me of any errors you notice.


End file.
